There Ought To Be Clowns

By Mary Fewko

Just shy of spring, a triple homicide erupts in the city and a native, Moses Johnson, is under investigation. Though originally questioned as a formality, his lack of social media becomes the reason why two detectives keep pursuing him. In an age rampant with virtual footprints, being a Luddite could suit the perfect alibi...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Fewko
• Release date: Nov 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370645909

Mary Fewko

I truly hope you all enjoy your time spent with my work! Thanks for visiting my Smashwords page!"Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for." -RAY BRADBURYALL RIGHTS RESERVED for any published poetry or short stories by Mary Fewko.

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THERE OUGHT TO BE CLOWNS

a short drama story written by mary fewko

This is a story of fiction. All events are written from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to living or dead persons is entirely coincidental.

Though composed after an actual triple homicide in the city of Rochester, New York, no names or traits of the deceased have been used.

Copyright © 2013, 2014

First SMASHWORDS EDITION © 2016

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ®

You didn’t have to be here…

-Curtis Mayfield

The sunshine is leaving, and with it, the will to live. It is the first night of spring. Many are not ready for even the briefest of blackouts, chiefly after many months of uninterrupted hypothermia. The young man is walking past a derelict playground, listening to a voicemail from his doctor. He wonders, what’ll happen when the sun doesn’t rise one morning? Looking around for the appropriate drug dealer to his most ill-starred dependency. He resolves to himself, I’ll probably start snorting nebulas….

…Yeah, hello? Um… I’m sorry about the timing here, but the prescription will have to be voided. I’m currently under investigation, my other client, you know, Nelson, busted with cocaine… the young man stops the message at the same instant each listen, prior to the overdose of Hippocratic oath violations. He wonders what the doctor tells others about him.

The night is now, the moon scowls, and the young man needs to score. He sees, by the rusty slide, Kōdeia, the dealer he goes to most nights, though in recent light has been getting an attitude from. Kōdeia waves two fingers and begins to walk down the street to his house. The young man follows, an addict disciple, following the orthodox pusher.

The young man enters Kōdeia’s house slowly. He has a grip on his convulsions for the first time in weeks, but for how long, he does not know.

In the living room, the young man sees two young girls gridlocked with their cellphones. Neither of them look away from the screens, as if they don’t care who enters.

Are you looking for Percocet again, guy?

The young man thinks about stabbing the next person who calls him ‘guy.’

No. My liver can’t take it anymore. He shifts; looks restless. A sweat appears on his head as if the dark was twice as hot as day.

Well, I got plenty of weed dropped off. He opens up a fireproof safe sitting on his coffee table. This is Northern Cali, it’s christened ‘Nia-sin,’ probably cause of the wheat color. This is ‘southern petrol,’ right, smell it, high in demand right now and right here is ‘raspberry,’ …I’m not sure why but it's christened ‘raspberry.’

Young man is still wearing his sunglasses. He notices for the first time a psychedelic cross above Kōdeia, with four equal divisions reaching out.

This shit is christened ‘soul-beater,’ this is christened…

Weed won’t work, the young man is getting fidgety. Pharmacies. The young man takes out a Newport cigarette.

Hey, man, Kōdeia considers asking him to not smoke in the house, and then decides to let it be. Fuck it. Alright.

Kōdeia looks at the young man warily. He leaves the room for a moment to grab the pills. The girls have not yet